


A Steady Hand

by theFateofYou



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elvhen Language, Elvhen fresco, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Minor Angst, Painting, Rogue Lavellan - Freeform, Romance, Skyhold, Solas' rotunda, Solavellan always has angst, its unavoidable, pre-fade kiss, solas being a nerd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 07:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15067814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theFateofYou/pseuds/theFateofYou
Summary: Mathelina cannot help but watch Solas as he completes another part of his fresco in the rotunda. He notices.For an indepth analysis of Solas' fresco, check this tumblr post out:https://sulahnenasalin.tumblr.com/post/122544768009/lets-talk-solas-frescoes-solas-paintings-are





	A Steady Hand

**Author's Note:**

> A cute and fluffy piece between the two, to make up for future events.

His hand was perfectly still. Not a tremor nor twitch as Solas glided the soft brush across the rotunda's walls. Not a word fell from his lips as he worked, nor a sigh or even pause. Yet his hand painted symphony of colour against the pale plaster. Oranges and reds that faded away before he refreshed his brush in the bowls of thick paint. His jaw remained clenched with each stroke, and only relaxed as it left the wall; a testimony of his concentration. Hazel eyes followed his unshakeable hand, watched the colour’s gradient until it was time for more paint.

The lines he followed were faint, pencil sketches; barely visible against the wall and impossible to determine the paintings true image. It seemed that the truth resided in the tall elf’s mind, and time alone would reveal them to the spy that watched. Her own eyes wide with fascination as she saw an eye emerge from the paint. Of course she had read the note on the frescos, Leliana had casually dropped it into her office. Ancient Elvhen painting techniques, a fresco done in a day. It explained why the peace simply appeared out of nowhere when she came home one day from a mission, the explosion of the temple illustrated in bright orange and red; hope just on the horizon edge. Her rebirth as the herald. Now she could not help but wonder what he would make now. 

Mathelina remained lurking in the shadows of the doorway to the rotunda. The darkness clinging to her form as she followed each stroke just as Solas did. Her fingers drummed softly against the stone walls as she tried to picture what he would do next. Solas had pulled a set of silver paints now, laying the bowls carefully next to his foot as he stood atop the scaffold to reach the highest point of the rotunda. Long, broad strokes, a steady hand. So sure, so confident. Mathelina envied that. He knew so much of their people, of the past, to the point that he was considered a master of a painting technique forgotten to time. She barely knew the history of her own name, and yet Solas painted with ease and expertise. It was a topic she brought up whenever the conversation allowed, and more often than not he answered. The two bored their companions to death as they talked of forgotten ruins and battles, history, culture, even language. Her ability with the Elvhen tongue only grew the longer she knew him. There was no end to what she wanted to know, and thus far Solas had no complaints of teaching her. 

Varric teased her of it often, of how close they grew. “I see the way you look at him. And the way he looks at you.” It wasn’t a lie, her eyes could not help but follow him as he walked; tracing the line of his jaw as he spoke. She was not alone in this, and their tents were always raised next to each other. The two leaned in close during cold nights, and Solas never commented on the way her tanned cheeks grew rosy anytime his hand brushed hers. Stupid Varric and his writer’s eye.

Mathelina was pulled from her thoughts, and her body moved on instinct as one of the bowls fell from the scaffold. Her reflexes and grace something Solas had made note of before. The paint, thick enough that it didn’t slosh as she caught the wooden bowl firmly in her palm. Fenedhis, her cover was blown. Mathelina slowly looked up, her auburn eyes meeting those cool tones. Solas was leaning over the scaffolding, his hand raised up from the action of purposefully dropping the bowl. Mathelina missed the smirk that pulled over his features, too busy looking at her own feet having been caught in her spying. “Ah, da’len. Are you done hiding?”  
“Heh, sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you.” The inquisitor rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand before looking back up at Solas. He was still smiling, his hand hovering over the plaster as he looked down at her. She was so ready to learn, to be taught. Every word absorbed and used to the fullest extent; not many were able to have that kind of wisdom. He almost hadn’t noticed her immediately, disguised in the shadows as though she was one of them.It was her eyes that gave her away, faintly glimmering in the dark; full of wonder as she watched him. He’d almost made a mistake when he finally noticed her. She had been gone for a while, missions and diplomacy to be handled. If Varric asked, the elf would firmly deny it, but he had missed her. The constant questions and curiosity; it was surprising how quickly he had gotten use to having her around. “Well, come on up. You’re not going to learn anything from staying on the ground.”

Who was she to argue on free lessons? The elven woman quickly scrambled up the scaffold, careful not to spill the paint in her palm. She completely forgoed the ladder, and used the support beams to climb up; twisting like water as he made her way up and stood next to her teacher. Her head just reached his chin, and Mathelina tilted her chin up lightly to meet his eyes. Her fingers twitched slightly in anticipation, ready to learn another part of her forgotten history. Solas took the paint out of her hand, and slowly uncurled her fingers. Her hands were so cold, the knuckles bruised, thick callouses had marred the skin from years of practice and he traced every line with his fingers. Made a map of her palms, the fresco forgotten for a moment as he raised those bruised knuckles to his lips. Her heart stammered, and she fought the blood raising in her cheeks. Instead, she smiled softly, reversing the hand hold and following the bony fingers that made his hands. The calluses were different from hers, and paint stained the tips; under the nails. There was a silence in the room that felt unbreakable, but her eyes said everything as she brought his hand to her cheek. It was instinctual for Solas, his fingers cupping the tattooed cheek. 

The both pulled away quickly, their hands curling into fists. No matter how hard her heart pounded, this was not something she could allow. She was the inquisitor, he was her teacher. There were rules, properties. She could hear Josephine scolding her already. No, it was better to focus on the painting, and Solas seemed to agree. He knew he should push her away, but he felt heavier at the thought of her leaving. Mathelina broke the silence between them, gave her best, brave smile. “Well hah’ren. Teach me.”

\----------------  
\----------------

Dorian leaned over the rotunda balcony, a book hanging from one hand. There was a part that was partially untranslated, mainly Elvhen in appearance. If anyone could translate it, that would be Solas. Yet, the mage paused rather than yelling to his scholarly companion. It seemed he and the Inquisitor were rather occupied. Solas stood behind her, his hand wrapped around her smaller one as she showed her the correct movement for the fresco. He spoke low, whispering in her ear as she made each movement. Years with the bow had given her a steady hand, and with Solas’ atop hers none could see the difference in artists. His other hand had curled around her hip, digging into the soft flesh as she raised on her toes to reach higher. They moved in unison with each other, never looking to the other as they moved. The stress and responsibility that plagued their brow had vanished, falling into the moment of simply creating a fresco.

“Lovebirds.” Dorian mused to himself, closed the book, and pulled away from the balcony. He threw it on his side table and made his way down the stairs. The translation could wait, the elves were clearly busy. Dorian couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he made his way down, “Oh Varric is going to love this.”


End file.
